Megan

By Marisa Carroll

SISTERS

A sister can be a woman's closest friend

A golden wedding usually means a family celebration. But the Hardaway sisters drifted apart years ago. And each has her own reason for wanting no part of a family reunion. As plans for the party proceed, tensions mount, until it even begins to look as if their parents' marriage might fall apart before the big event. Can the daughters put aside old hurts and betrayals for the sake of the family?

The story comes full circle in this exciting conclusion to the Sisters trilogy

Megan Hardaway Carson had given up hope of ever seeing her son or her husband, Noah again. The child was kidnapped by a stranger twelve years ago, and Megan's marriage couldn't withstand the loss. Now a teenager has shown up, looking for the parents he barely remembers. Parents who still love him and each other.

Megan and Noah Carson are given an unexpected chance to resume their marriage. Just in time for the Hardaways' golden anniversary a celebration of family and enduring love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460872789

Marisa Carroll

The writing team of Marisa Carroll came about when one half, Carol Wagner, parted company with her first writing partner, an old high school friend, after publishing two books. Carol saw the writing on the wall - the line they were writing for was on life support - her friend didn't. Enter the second half of the duo: her sister, Marian Franz. The combination has lasted for 28 books, 26 of them for Harlequin's various lines. Ideas come from one or both. Carol does most of the writing. Marian does the research, all of the editing and proofreading, and ruthless weeding out of run-on sentences.The partnership isn't always smooth sailing, but like most long-term relationships, even those among non-siblings, the sisters have learned to put petty differences aside for the greater good of the book. They've established a goal of 50 published books, a kind of Golden Anniversary for the partnership. And they intend to stick to it, no matter how many arguments it takes.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

HE STOOD on the wide deck overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, squinting against the fierce August sunlight. The afternoon was hot and bright, and the beach was an endless stretch of sugar-fine white sand. He remembered playing there, building sand castles with his grandmother, taking piggyback rides on his grandfather’s shoulders.

Didn’t he?

I remember, he whispered fiercely. I do.

But he didn’t remember enough. Only bits and pieces of a dozen years ago when he’d been a little kid of three or four. He didn’t remember his aunt Amy. Or the one they called Lisa, whose picture was on the piano in the formal, richly decorated living room of Sea Haven, his grandparents’ home. They were watching him now, Helene and Merrick Hardaway, from the windows of the big white house that loomed behind him. He could feel their eyes on him—curious, wary, wondering if they could believe he was who he said he was. Right now he figured they were getting ready to call his mother. Tell her he’d shown up on the doorstep. Come back from the dead.

He couldn’t even remember what his mother looked like. Only the faint echoes of her voice, soft and loving, and her arms around him, warm and strong, protecting him from monsters under his bed. Make-believe monsters, not the real two-legged one who had ruled his life for the last twelve years. And his father? Just hazy recollections of a photograph of a man in a blue uniform on the table beside his mother’s bed that he used to blow a kiss to at bedtime every night.

Megan and Noah Carson.

All the rest of his memories had been beaten out of him years ago. Even his name. He was Erik now. He was afraid to answer to anything else. But deep inside, in his heart, he’d never forgotten who he was. Never. He was Derek Noah Carson. And once, long ago, he’d lived here at Sea Haven, Hurricane Beach, Florida.

CHAPTER ONE

HER SON WAS BACK. Megan sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold in the shock, trying to quell the excitement, the joy she could feel beginning to surge. She had dared to hope so many times since Derek had been abducted twelve years ago. And each time her hopes had been shattered.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Derek was alive. Her mind echoed the words again and again as she stared blankly down at the carpet, barely noticing it was beginning to show some wear. It had been here for almost seven years, as long as she had owned the small condo on a quiet side street in the Omaha suburb of Papillion, Nebraska.

My baby. Her words were barely audible. My baby is alive? She waited for the tears but they didn’t come. She’d cried too many tears. She had none left to shed.

Megan? Are you all right? Megan, answer me, please.

Her mother’s voice sounded faint and faraway. Megan blinked, not realizing for a moment that she had dropped the receiver. She picked it up with shaking hands. I’m here, Mom. She was surprised to find her voice wasn’t shaking as badly as her hands. I’m okay. I…it’s hard—

I know. He…he just showed up on the doorstep. It…it was such a shock, Helene murmured.

How? Short questions. She could manage those while she fought to get her heart rate back to normal, her breathing under control.

He hasn’t told us much yet, Megan. He’s exhausted and half-starved. He’s come all the way from Michigan. Way up north in Michigan. He hitchhiked most of the way, I think. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. Your father said not to pressure him, not right away. He…he said he remembered our address. He said he remembered learning— Helene’s voice broke and Megan sucked in her breath and held it to stifle a wail of denial as familiar nightmare memories stirred to life.

That’s what we were doing. Her mother was whispering now, too, as though she couldn’t trust her voice any longer. You remember, don’t you? Just before we went shopping that awful day. He was drawing pictures in the sand with a stick. He was only four. But so quick and so smart. I…I was teaching him our address. So that if he ever got lost—

My name is Derek Noah Carson. I live at Sea Haven, Gulfview Road, Hurricane Beach, Florida.

Megan would go to her grave still hearing that little-boy voice. She had relived every moment of those last few days she’d spent with Derek again and again. Noah had been away on one of his navy SEAL deployments. Megan and Derek had come for a visit to Hurricane Beach. She’d learned not even to ask where Noah was going. He couldn’t tell her. She hated what he did for a living, but she had loved him, and had wanted to look nice for him when he came home.

So she and Helene had gone shopping for a dress, taking Derek with them to the mall in Tallahassee. The little boy was cranky and hungry.

Go see Grandma, she’d said. Her mother was only an aisle over, only a few feet away. Who would ever have thought they would lose him forever when they were both in plain sight of each other? The pain and guilt, old and familiar, stabbed at her again. She should have been more careful.

She’d turned her back on him for a moment, a blink of the eye and he was gone. He wasn’t with Helene. He wasn’t in the toy department, or at the pretzel stand, or watching the other children ride the mechanical toys near the fountain. He had simply disappeared. Until today.

Derek. She didn’t even realize she’d spoken his name aloud until her mother answered her.

He doesn’t want to be called Derek. He says we should call him Erik now. He…he won’t say why. Helene began to cry softly.

He had a different name. This boy, this stranger on her parents’ doorstep didn’t even go by the name she’d given him. How did that feel? Did it hurt? No reaction penetrated her numbness.

Derek. She’d named him after a character in a soap opera. She couldn’t even remember which one. A bad boy, dangerous and charismatic, just the type to appeal to a too-serious and studious high-school senior who longed for love and romance.

At nineteen she’d met Noah Carson, just as charismatic and even more dangerous than her TV heartthrob. She’d fallen head over heels in love with the young navy commando and never thought of the Derek character again. Until her son was born and Noah—whose name had been given to him by a caseworker in a Methodist orphanage—didn’t want his son named after him.

Mom, please don’t cry, Megan whispered. She could get through this. But only if her mother wouldn’t cry. It’s just a name. It’s a small price to pay to have him back with us.

I’m okay. Helene sniffed and cleared her throat. It’s just such a shock. And Megan. He…I think he looks like Noah.

Noah. Oh, God, she was going to have to get in touch with Noah.

Do…do you want me to call Noah and tell him? her mother asked, reading her mind.

Megan’s eyes lifted to the legal-size envelope sitting on the end table beside the telephone base. Divorce papers. Although she’d been legally separated from Noah Carson for nearly a decade, they’d never been divorced. Now, after all these years Noah wanted to take the final step. She hadn’t even told her parents yet. She didn’t know why. It was to be expected one of them would want to be free sooner or later. Perhaps he’d found someone to love? If he had, she was glad for him, but still it was unsettling that he was the one who wanted to sever the last tie between them.

No, Megan spoke into the receiver. I’ll tell him.

When can you come home?

I’ll call the airline right away. I’ll be home as soon as I can get there.

Your father will drive into Tallahassee and pick you up at the airport

No. I don’t know if I can even get a flight out anymore tonight I’ll rent a car and drive down from Tallahassee.

We…we thought it would be best to wait to tell you until you got home from work. Now I wish we’d called earlier. Right away. But it was so—

It’s okay. Megan was glad she hadn’t had to deal with this in her office. She didn’t want any of the one hundred and fifty residents and staff of Graceway Retirement Center to see their director of nursing a shivering, shaking, emotional wreck.

Would you like to speak with him now?

No, not yet. Megan’s answer was almost an involuntary reaction. I need some time, Mom. And I’d rather see him when I first talk to him.

I’ll leave the door unlocked, Helene promised. Your room is ready and waiting.

The sunny blue and yellow room that had been hers all through high school. Megan closed her eyes and pictured its serenity. The windows faced inland, away from the gulf, looking out over the acres and acres of pine and live oak that had been in her mother’s family for generations.

Fly safely, Helene was saying. Be here soon.

It’s a miracle, Megan, her mother said fiercely. A miracle. After all these years.

I know, Mom.

She broke the connection and sank onto the couch. She, too, had given up hope years before, but now she felt it stirring, and she pushed it back into the darkness with a ruthlessness born of too many disappointments. She wasn’t ready to believe, she dared not believe. Not yet.

COMMANDER, there’s a call for you.

Lieutenant Commander Noah Carson, United States Navy, turned away for a moment from the Hell Week endurance exercise taking place against the backdrop of a spectacular Pacific sunset on the beach below the berm where he was standing. He eyed the young sailor waiting respectfully at his side.

A phone call?

Yes, sir, Commander. You can take it in the support vehicle. The support vehicle was a naval ambulance on standby in case any of the SEAL students—now forty-eight hours into Hell Week, the most physically demanding and intensive week of training in the United States military—needed aid.

I’m busy, sailor, Noah barked, his eyes returning to the line of shivering, yelling students walking, arms linked, into the water. Automatically he checked his watch. Hypothermia was always a danger in water-torture exercises, or evolutions, as they were known in Navy Special Warfare circles. And it was torture standing in chest-deep, sixty-degree surf. He knew that from experience.

Over the years SEAL instructors—the acronym stood for Sea, Air, Land—had calculated to the split second the amount of time a human being could stay in the cold Pacific waters off Coronado Beach, California, without endangering life. Noah knew that his instructors, wearing blue and gold T-shirts emblazoned with the trident seal of the Navy Special Warfare teams, would keep the sailors standing in the crashing waves exactly that long, not one second more, nor one second less.

Commander.

I told you I’m busy, sailor. Unless the call’s from Captain Mannley himself, I don’t want to be bothered with it. Harrison Mannley was Noah’s boss, the officer in charge of SEAL training, and he was not happy with the dropout rate in this particular BUDS—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL—class. When the old man wasn’t happy, Noah wasn’t happy. It was his job to figure out what it was about this class that made it different from the rest. So far he hadn’t come up with any answers as to why these particular young men were less motivated, or less physically prepared than the ones before them. All he knew was that the failure rate in this class was twenty percent higher than the norm. And that wasn’t good.

The call’s not from Captain Mannley, sir. The sailor cleared his throat The call’s from a woman, sir.

Noah swung his whole body around this time. A woman?

The sailor gulped. Yes, sir. A woman. She…she says she’s your wife, sir.

My wife?

Megan. A quick fragmentary vision of laughing, gray-green eyes and silky, ash-blond hair flashed through his thoughts. He pushed the tantalizing, forbidden image away with an almost-physical act of will. Was she calling him about the divorce papers? It didn’t seem likely. Surely she would handle the final dissolution of their marriage through her lawyer. Are you sure she said she was my wife?

Yes, sir.

Then I think I’d better take the call.

Noah walked around to the front of the ambulance and put the receiver of the cellular phone to his ear. Carson here.

A portion of his attention—the portion that was all navy—continued to focus on the young sailors in the water. One of them broke ranks and began to struggle back to shore despite the pleading of his classmates and the bellowed insults of the instructors. But the youngster had reached his limits, both mentally and physically. He stood shivering and shaking in the fading light, refusing to reenter the water. Finally the instructor signaled for a medic.

Damn. Another one. Mannley was going to have his hide.

Noah?

He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until he heard Megan’s voice. I’m here.

Noah? It’s hard to hear you. We must have a bad connection.

It’s the middle of Hell Week, Megan. I’m out on the beach.

Oh. Of course. I’m…I’m sorry to interrupt you.

Megan, what’s wrong? The medic was approaching the shivering dropout. Noah eyed the line of trainees standing fast against the surf. A second student broke free of his comrades, and then a third. Damn, Noah thought. This class is losing sailors faster than we can count.

Noah, did you hear me?

He turned his back on the ocean and the men in it. I hear you, Megan, he said. It had been eight years since they’d spoken last, but it might as well have been eight minutes. Her voice, low and smooth as honey, still affected him like a shot of adrenaline injected straight into his heart. I thought you’d want to handle the divorce through your lawyer.

Lawyer? Noah, it’s not the divorce I’m calling about. There was a short silence on her end of the line, as though she was steeling herself to speak. It’s Derek.

Derek. He felt his stomach knot. A steel band tightened around his chest. Had their child’s body been found after all these years? What about…our son?

He’s alive, Noah. Her voice broke. He heard her draw in a long ragged breath. He showed up at Sea Haven this afternoon. My mother called about an hour ago. I…I’ve been trying to track you down.

Are you sure, Megan? Are you sure it’s Derek? He couldn’t take it in. He didn’t know what to say, how to react.

I don’t know. Mother thinks it’s really him. But Noah, how can we be sure? I…we lost our little boy. Now he’s almost a grown man. A stranger. How can we ever be sure?

When does your flight leave? He didn’t have to ask if she was going to Hurricane Beach. There was no question of that.

I can’t get out of Omaha tonight. I’ve booked a seat on the first flight out in the morning.

I’ll be there as soon as I can get leave.

Noah, I don’t—

He heard the reluctance in her voice and overrode it He’s my son, too, Megan.

The tears were gone. Her voice was flat and hard, but she couldn’t quite hide another shaky indrawn breath. I’m aware of that, Noah. I’ll tell Mom and Dad to be expecting you.

She broke the connection. Noah was left standing with the cellular phone still against his ear. As he lowered his arm and handed the phone back to the obviously curious, but silent sailor, he was amazed to find his hand was steady.

Inside he was shaking like a leaf.

GOOD NIGHT, Erik. I hope you sleep well.

Thank you, ma’am. He pulled the sheet up to his chest. He didn’t have anything to sleep in but a T-shirt and his shorts. He didn’t think Helene Hardaway was used to having people in her guest room who didn’t even own pajamas.

She was staring at him again with those sad blue eyes as though trying to see something—someone—in him. He tried not to stare back. His grandmother. He didn’t remember much about her, only her hair, not quite as white as it was now, and the words she’d taught him, the words he hadn’t dared say aloud for all these years, but kept alive in his heart, his talisman against the darkness.

My name is Derek Noah Carson. I live at Sea Haven, Gulfview Road, Hurricane Beach, Florida.

You sleep as late as you want, his grandmother was saying. Your grandfather and I are usually up by seven. But you come down to breakfast whenever you’re ready.

Thanks. I don’t usually sleep in very often, either.

His grandfather, tall and stern-faced, came up behind her and peered over her shoulder. Good night, son.

Good night, sir. He didn’t know if the Hardaways believed he was who he said he was. After all, he didn’t even answer to the name they knew him by. Byron Fielder had seen to that.

Is there anything else you need? his grandfather said.

No sir. Thank you.

His grandmother was watching her husband from the corner of her eye. Erik had noticed that they didn’t touch, or even talk to each other very much. For some reason, that made him sad. He didn’t know why it should. Fielder and his moth—Fielder and his wife—never touched each other. Fielder hadn’t even cried when Diana died.

Good night, Helene said again. Sleep tight. Don’t— She stopped talking, looking hopeful, obviously waiting for him to say something.

Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Diana Fielder, the woman who’d raised him, the woman he’d always called Mother, but couldn’t anymore, used to say that sometimes. Had his grandmother said it, too, when he was little?

You always used to finish that little rhyme, Helene explained, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. You know. It goes. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

He shook his head. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.

That’s okay. Her smile was sad, like her eyes. It was a long time ago. We’ll leave you now. It’s getting late. Her husband stepped aside and let her precede him out of the room. He flipped out the light and closed the door without another word.

I blew it, Erik whispered into the darkness. I blew it. Why couldn’t he have just said the words to the stupid poem even if he couldn’t remember his grandmother ever saying good-night to him with it?

He lay in the wide bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. The bed was too soft, the room too large and unfamiliar. Everything was unfamiliar. He thought he would remember more. But he didn’t. Sea Haven was a big white house with green shutters. But it was not the magical palace he’d conjured from his fragments of memory. The focal point of the half-remembered world of sighing waves, soft, white sand and endless sunshine. How many times had he closed his eyes and gone there to escape the bewildering violence and grinding poverty of his life? Erik sat up and punched the too-soft pillow with his fist. He was safe now. Fifteen hundred miles away from the man who had snatched him that day, moving so quickly and holding him so tightly that Erik hadn’t even been able to cry out.

With any luck, Byron Fielder would have forgotten where Erik came from. His kidnapper—he’d never, ever, thought of the man as his father, never!—had always been a little crazy, a lot scary. He’d bullied and threatened Erik so that the boy had never dared to tell anyone who he really was. Since Diana died just before Easter, Fielder had been worse—angry and more violent than ever. The woman who’d raised him, who’d done her best to protect him from her husband’s abuse, was gone. Erik used to dream of somehow getting enough money scraped together for both of them to get away.

But three years earlier, when the idea had really begun to take shape in his mind, Diana had developed heart trouble and their hand-to-mouth existence and lack of medical care had hastened her death. He couldn’t abandon her. So he’d bided his time and hoarded what little money he had until the only person he cared about was beyond hurting. Then, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he stole Fielder’s rattletrap old car, and headed south for Hurricane Beach.

They’d moved around so much when he was little that there was a good chance Fielder had forgotten where he’d found Erik. With any luck, his tormentor would never find him.

He closed his eyes, tried to sleep.

He was safe now.

He was home.

CHAPTER TWO

HE’S WAITING FOR YOU. Helene was sitting on the edge of the double bed, which was covered with a yellow and blue starburst quilt, in Megan’s old room. The coverlet—already much-washed and somewhat frayed around the binding—had caught Megan’s eye at a craft fair when she was a teenager. She’d bought it with the money from her first summer job.

She looked around, avoiding her mother’s eyes, searching almost desperately for some small task. There was nothing left to do. The one good dress she’d brought with her was hanging in the closet. Her shorts and sleeveless tops were in the second drawer of the tall mahogany bureau, her underwear and nightgown in the top. Her toilet articles were neatly arranged in the mirrored cabinet above the double sink in the adjoining bathroom. She’d combed her hair and touched up her makeup.

It’s time, Megan, Helene prompted softly. It’s time to see your son.

I know.

But she wasn’t ready. She didn’t know if she’d ever be